Locked-In
Mar 23 2009


The mind weakens
letting go of names.
Confabulating
for the sake of dignity.
Awakening in the dark
confused, and fearful.

They found you wandering
circling in freshly fallen snow,
mismatched slippers sodden,
thin pyjamas
slipping down.

You peer out
eyes suspicious, darting
from this robust body
you cannot quite control,
tough as sinew
from long hard years of work.



Or will that be what betrays you
in the end?
Dependent on them
to piss
to bathe,
the humiliation
of soiling yourself.
Perhaps wishing
to be as unaware as he is,
for the merciful bliss
of ignorance.

You still know
how to mix a highball,
the scent of a good cigar,
when to hold your cards
or fold.
But all they see is this frail old man,
breathing hard
after a few faltering steps,
locked-in
sore and stiff.

Hearing’s gone
sight is going fast
and food all tastes like styrofoam.
So you tell stories from the past,
talking to yourself.
And they can’t understand
how this old man could be smiling like that,
his eyes still bright and fierce.